Relics of What
Relics of wormwood and teething is the sky oddly draped: across mom's breasts where it shouldn't.
Should be across your own.
Hope comes sutured to worry so you'll do both.
Relics will polyp in such ways and places
but a wood-finish magic happens and
you'll be there. Wear an uncommon brain. B
e an uncommon heart when it happens.
Ugly precipice and how we're standing on it wrong.
But what's wrong is us and how –
how we endeavor to save ourselves how we're licking the wrong side of display windows how fog is the brain of forget.
In Defense of Your Neighbors' Avant-Garde Piano Racket
We spy each other across aisles of acres of pyramids of citrus on the edge of rot, like any organized mania grocery display. You're considering avocados. I am not.
Your check out line number flickering, like is your teller there or not?
You brave it still, and you're parking lot strutting before me.
You run over a dummed out pigeon
You almost do
You clip a wing.
It dances its gross ecstasy.
It gets dead underneath my foot.
It pulps up and stops its worry.
I didn't see it I say. Came out of no where
I say. We grow to talk & talk
turns to odd discovery turns to candle
light. Another dead pigeon needs scraping up
like skillet gristle.
I stumble in your bed. A piano
strapped to my back. To play
all chords backwards with you
when we're all odd and backwards too.
Eddy Jordan writes runs and drinks in the Longmont & Boulder area. He graduated from CU in 2015 with a BFA in Theatre Performance which has informed his writing and also explains his odd behavior. Past publications include TIMBER 8.1, Punch Drunk Press, Harpoon Review, 13 Myna Birds, & CU's Honor Journal.